QQ: Que paso?

 

Before there were regular folks strapping mini feminine napkins to their ears, before they were wearing Trumper Dumper diapers, or ugly gold plated sneakers adorned with all kinds of Trumphenalia, there was QAnon. 

Where'd did they go? Where are the Q-drops? Where are the Q flags, the Q T-shirts, and the super secret Q handshakes?

I ask this not because these low digit IQ people make for some quality grist for the mill. Any writer, even an unemployed ex-copywriter can make hay out brainwashed cultists who'd eat a shit sandwich if they thought it would hasten the return of JFK to be Trump's VP. Oh did you forget that nonsense?

I ask because I have a genuine interest in this.

For years I followed their tweets, their gatherings and their loony spokespeople, which included a sitting US Congresswoman from Georgia who I shall not name. Nor post a picture of her stoney mug. If I didn't know better, and if not for the apparent ability to grunt and breathe, I would swear the appendage above her neck was one big sedimentary boulder.

In the interest of "know thy enemy", I was familiar with the ramblings of 4 Chan. And 8 Chan. As well as the various insignia, particularly the antisemitic shit, that accompanied them from Portland, Maine, to Portland, Oregon. Spreading their tin foil horseshittery, whereever they found fertile ground -- Everywhere.

But since the not-quite-a-landslide victory on November 5th, 2024, there simply is no need for Q. Or QAnon. Or even MTG, who despite her ardent love for Dear Leader, was passed over for any cabinet positions. And has been eclipsed in the media by far more charismatic, albeit evil, characters. 

Or could it be that with our DOTUS, Dictator of The United States, safely ensconced in the White House, Q and QAnon had served its purpose and was no longer necessary? 

Far be it from me to give the "stable genius", who has apparently passed on his superior intellect to Barron, who can turn a laptop computer on in 5 minutes, too much credit, but could the Q phenomena have been a psyop by the psycho himself? 

Let's not forget in the early days, he would use alias names and personas, to laud himself in the media.

"Hey NY Post editorial desk, this is John Miller. I just met Donald J Trump at the Met, last night, that man is a real estate genius. And he's handsome too."

"Hey Wall Street Journal, this is David Dennison, I just made three million dollars on a real estate deal put together by a young upstart named Donald J. Trump. He's not only ambitious, he's handsome too."

"Hey National Enquirer, this is John Barron, I was at restaurant recently and overheard Marla Maples tell her friends that she just had the best sex ever with this guy Donald J. Trump. I hear he's quite handsome too."

My theory, and granted it's just a conspiracy theory about conspiracy theorists, is that Q has morphed. And fallen in line with a new leader. Forged by greed, ketamine and an insatiable lust for power. Perhaps the second most famous and dickish man in the world.

Apologies to Albert Einstein...

Q= EM + X

Pity Poor Pete

 

Ladies and gentleman, may I introduce our studly (at least in his amoeba-sized reptilian brain) Secretary of Defense, Peter J Hegseth. The J stands for Genius, like all of Trump's henchmen. 

And henchwomen. 

Some of you, those who haven't been living in a self-imposed news blackout, have become quite familiar with this frat boy turned media slut turned cabinet member Ryan Seacrest doppelgänger. Particularly following his recent WhiskeyLeaks debacle and including a journalist on what was supposed to be a Top Secret Classified briefing about war plans on Houthi Rebels.

Houthi Rebels, again for those unwilling to withstand the tsunami of horseshit coming out of today's news cycle, are Islamic militants residing in Yemen, just south of Saudi Arabia. They are Shiites aligned with Iran. Iran is aligned with Russia. And Russia is now aligned with America, which makes this all the more confusing.

"Mr. President, if I had beautiful hair like yours, I would fashion it the same way."

"Thank you so much, flattery will get you everywhere, Vlad."

"How about Ukraine," Putin replies.

They both laugh.

Instead of developing their country, building infrastructure and repairing their piss poor country (see so many other nations in the Fertile Crescent) the Houthis have been lobbing missiles at Israel and at US cargo ships passing through the Red Sea into the Gulf of Aden. 

Hence the saber rattling.

Even more confounding is how a journalist from The Atlantic, not exactly a right wing bullhorn for the current regime, was put on the exclusive call. If it were the Wall Street Journal, the Washington Times or even Joe Rogan, it might be more understandable. But this was a fuck-up of the highest order.

It would result in some serious egg on the face of the administration. Which is ironic since the billionaires and Dark MAGA oligarchs are the only Americans who can afford eggs. Still.

Despite the "major fuckup", thank you Pete Buttigieg for putting it so succinctly in the vernacular of the day, there's a good chance, Pistol Pete will go unscathed. 

That is not surprising.

What may surprise you is that I believe he deserves the benefit of the dumb...I mean doubt. And given a second chance.

And you'll know why after this brief trip in the Time Machine back to the halcyon days of this 2011 post: https://roundseventeen.blogspot.com/2011/06/funbaggate.html

Good luck Pete.

Brain salve

As you can see, from the walking stick in the lower left hand corner, I'm still convalescing from my recent hip replacement. It has not been easy. Perhaps as a MOSL, Man of Semi-Leisure, I expected it to be. But forced immobility is just not in my non-sedentary nature. 

As you can also see I've tried to make the most of my supine hours laying around the house by boning up on David Sedaris. Reading is an activity that also demands non-activity. And doesn't come naturally to me. Or my age-shortened attention span, which is best suited for Facebook Reels or glimpses of Trump Truth Social posts, which spike my blood pressure and delay my full recovery.

I had read Me Talk Pretty One Day, years ago. It's a great beach read. I know I had it stuffed in my luggage when taking many family vacations. But reading on the beach, between bouts of toddler tantrums, sunscreen application, Mojitos and the occasional dip in the water, is not the same as sitting in a recliner, sipping a small tumbler of bourbon and nursing a surgical gash that is 14 inches long (at least from my POV). 

It allowed me time to absorb the nuances of his writing. It allowed me to sit with the composition. And savor his flights of fancy and self deprecation. In other words, unlike my prior skimming, it stuck.

Noteworthy for me, because when it comes to artistic material, my memory is as limited as a discarded Zune. Ms. Muse and I will often talk about movies. Her catalogue is very different than mine. But her recollection of that catalogue is nothing short of astounding. She knows scenes, dialogue, and even specific shots. 

And don't get me started on lyrics to TV opening theme songs!

Similarly, I was talking with my friend Jim J. recently, who was currently eyeball deep into Zuckerman Unbound by Philip Roth. Here too, as in all literary discussions, I found myself woefully unequipped. I've read a few Philip Roth books. I read a couple of his books in college, when a certain co-ed persuaded me to join her and sign up for a class of Jewish American Literature. I wasn't pursuing a deeper understanding of Bellow, Malamud and Wiesel. I was pursuing something else.

Jim also has an encyclopedic memory of what he has read. And must read, as a Professor of Screenwriting at Fordham University. When I inquired about Zuckerman, he said:

"You read Portnoy's Complaint, right?"

And I had.

"Remember when Portnoy..."

That's where he lost me. 

I suppose I could've fumbled my way like a book report given by a 7th grader who hadn't read the book, but I demurred: "Yeah, I don't remember a thing."

Perhaps that's why I'm drawn to Sedaris. For one thing, his short stories are short. Not clogged up with a lot of purple prose. He can meander quite a bit, but each meandering brings up a new volley of observations and quips about his (our) frailties.

Most importantly, they're funny. Many a day I found myself laughing out loud. And no, that wasn't the oxycodone, which I have put away and replaced with industrial strength Tylenol. 

If you are unfamiliar with David Sedaris and need a laugh (who doesn't these days?" I suggest you start here. Pay special attention to his efforts to become a painter, his days as a mover in NYC, and his feeble attempts to learn French -- hence the title.

Also, if you get a chance, go to one of his readings. You might see me at the next one.

Feathers, basketball and collaborators

Weeks ago I started a new series here on R17. I call it Unresolved Thursdays. Wherein I would address some of the things, observations, zeitgeists/etc. that I simply can't get my feeble, and growing more feeble, mind around.

Today's Unresolved issues cannot wait until Thursday. They are pressing against my cranium like a GOP Alabama State Representative pushing a door open that has been clearly marked Pull.

The first issue is unavoidable. Mostly because I've been housebound for the past two weeks and my home seems to be invaded by down feathers. 

They're molting. I don't even know what molting means, but I'm told by folks more familiar with furniture stuffings and pillow fillings, that the feather or down or whatever it is, sprouts through the pinholes in the surrounding fabric in order to make room for new growth.

WTF?

That would make sense to me if the feather and/or down were still attached to the duck, quail, or other unspecified barnyard bird that was still flapping its wings. But they've long been separated from their host former poultry self. I assume they were inert. 

"This is a Dead Parrot feather."

Apparently feathers and or down (both pictured above) have an afterlife. And now insist on peacocking around my house like so many scattered shoes and half emptied coffee mugs. Moreover, these little white buggers are hard to gather up. Of course it would help if I kept my Dustbuster™ fully charged. Or even halfway charged.

Another reason for addressing these urgent unresolved issues is because we are smack dab in the middle of March Madness. There was a period when this was the most glorious, albeit borrowed, the most wonderful time of the year. Namely because my Syracuse Orangemen were participants and occasionally #1 or #2 seeds in the NCAA Tournament.

Years ago, my alma mater was considered the Beast of the East. They were to college basketball fans in NY what the New England Patriots were to football fans in Assachusettes...ooops, Massachusetts. Those glory days have faded. Now they are cellar dwellars. Doomed by the portal, the realignment of conferences and the understandable early egress of star players lured by millions of dollars. And the opportunity to start for the Lithuanian Lattkes.

Feathers and or down, may have an afterlife, but my once vaunted Syracuse Orange do not.

Last but certainly not least, in terms of relevance, the neurons in my skull fail, and continue, to connect. Not just on little things like, "what did I walk into the bathroom for?" But on the much more serious dilemma of the day -- why have so many smart Republicans been duped by, or remain blind to, an American President who is dismantling America before our own eyes.

If I had hair, I'd be pulling it out. After I cleaned up all the feathers and or down.

A few words on Adolescence

It's been 4 days since I watched the last scene in the Netflix mini-series, Adolescence, and I'm still rattled. Perhaps it's fitting, as I am writing this post on my oldest daughter's birthday. I cannot believe it's been 29 years since we brought little Wachie (Rachel) into this world.

I think of all the things we did right with her, but fittingly, in light of Adolescence, all the things I could've done better.

If you haven't seen the 4 part series, you must. 

Since most the readers of R17 are in or affiliated with the advertising/entertainment/production business, there's the impressive wizardry of making each episode a one-taker. That is, like the iconic nightclub scene from Goodfellas the camera follows the actors in one long continuous shot. If an actor flubs a line or misses a mark, it's for naught.

Some would argue it's nothing more than a technical feat, but in the case of Adolescence, it serves a purpose and immerses the audience into the material. This is particularly evident in Episode 3, which is nothing short of breathtaking. Mostly because it's driven primarily by two actors, a psychiatrist interviewing the 13 year old boy accused of stabbing a classmate.

One could say these are two thespians at the very top of their game. But one would also have to acknowledge that the 13 boy, who played by Owen Cooper, a rail thin, pasty boy, had never performed anything, anywhere else, before shooting this. 

Ira Glass famously said it takes 10,000 hours of practice before anyone can master their craft. In my case it's a significantly higher number. And even more elusive. Toying with funny letters to Internet Scammers is hardly moving the ball forward.

But young Owen seems to have mastered this acting thing. Maybe the filming of this epic show took more than 10,000 hours. Or maybe he's some kind of theatrical savant.

Finally, there's the material itself. Adolescence is a stinging indictment of free range internet parenting, misogyny, teen confusion, toxic masculinity, social (anti) media and the goddamn iPhone, which has become a monster unto itself.

I can't help but wonder what Steve Jobs would think about its effect, the good and the bad, on life. 

Adolescence is the most talked about show on the telly. 

And there's every reason why it should be.

A Smash from the past

 Today's post is a repost. I don't often do that, but sleep deprivation, due to the pharmaceuticals and my convalescence, doesn't go hand in hand with stellar writing. Which begs the question, "what are you doing here?"

 In any case, I fished out an old correspondence with a scammer trying to recruit me for the Illuminati, always one of my favorite series.

Just a little recap.

A week ago I tried to end my correspondence with Illuminati Recruiter/Scammer Michael John by telling him my wife Vajayjay Hertz (I laugh every time I write that) had left me and run off with a Nigerian man, Mantu Abraham.

Unwilling to let go, my scammer offered to get my wife back to me by hiring a private detective. That turn in the story was too good to ignore.

Of course he has important Illuminati affairs to tend to, so I can't put the whole burden on him and offer my own brand of assistance.

He assures me my efforts are unnecessary.
The payment however is necessary.

No so fast buddy, I'd like to know a little bit more about the private detective we're getting.

His focus on my money however remains laser-like, despite the non-sensical haberdashery.

And so it's time to throw another curveball at him. Vajayjay is on the move.

And that's where we are at. 

Will the schmatta factory in Gabon succeed?

Will $1200 be enough to cover the costs of the private detective?

Will the scammer ever realize he has been turned into the scammee?

Tune in next week.

The Reviews are in

Years ago (oh great another pining for the past) I toiled at one of the big ad agencies. At that time there were many. Now there are few. Complements of the bean counters and the ruthless, craftless mucky mucks who control the 5 Holding Companies.

(Holds hand to cup ear)

I'm being told there now only 3 Holding Companies.

Soon to be one: HackCo.

In any case, we were pitching another one of those brandless, shitty chain of motor lodges that line America's service roads, like so many discarded Slurpy cups. The name of the chain doesn't really matter. Just knowing you can lay your head down for a night for about 89 bucks was the best they have going for themselves.

You know the culprits:

Quality Comfort

Comfort Inn

Quality Inn

Days Inn

Econo Lodge

Upon mulling this over with my partner John Shirley and the many talented kids we had working for us, we decided that of all things we could be, CLEANEST would be the best.

It was a single minded platform that could distinguish our nameless brand from all the competitors, all of whom were in clear sight once exiting the highway at the intersection of Bland and Craptastic. Moreover our  Clean strategy played into a zeitgeist we're all familiar with.

If after pulling up to the red light following a grueling day of driving, and you have to choose between the 4 equally abysmal chain options on all sides, which one would you go opt for? I suggested, perhaps I did so with too much passion, that you would choose the brand that associated itself with CLEAN. I don't know about you, but I'm picky where I lay my head down to sleep.

Sadly, and this was a long time ago, I was answering to a clownish buffoon who had well exceeded his capabilities. He disagreed. In a slovenly manner.

"Where's the data to back you up?" he slurred.

I just went on gut instinct and didn't have data then. 

But I do now. 

For the past year I found myself in the Hospitality business and now have first hand knowledge of what people are looking for in temporary quarters. Here's a compilation photo of the reviews (all 5 Star, BTW) for my modest Airbnb in Palms Springs.

A full 50% of guests remarked on how clean the place is. And the other 50% implied it.

Is this conclusive evidence that our CLEAN campaign would have been better than what replaced it? A bullshit, say-everything-and-in-effect-say-nothing campaign about 52 cable channels, free parking and free paper clips for the traveling businessman or businesswoman? 

Hardly. 

But we didn't win account. And I'll take some validation anywhere I can get it.

"Advertising, huh?"

For people of a certain age, mine, there is a recurring scene which takes place at dinner parties, weddings and I suppose Bar/Bat Mitzvahs, I don't know because thankfully I haven't been to one in the last 13 years.

"Come on, kid speed up the 'blechen flonken ich bayt Yisrael. Let's get to the festive meal, " my inner voice moans.

But painful Jewish ritual celebrations that always seem to require some kind of multi-hour long penance before the eating and drinking can begin, is NOT the recurring scene I am referring to. Besides I can't do any better, or get even close, than Sal Maniscalo and his vicious takedown of Passover Seders, see it here.

No, what I'm referring to is the meeting of new people. And the inevitable...

"Oh, retired now? But you used to work in advertising. That sounds interesting."

Maybe it was interesting before. Not so much now. 

Despite their mission to gain your attention there's not much interesting about E-Mail Subject Lines.

Because they're seen ad infinitum by millions of people Doomscrolling, there's not much interesting about banner ads.

And in accordance with Best Practices and social media banalities, there's nothing interesting about ads which all must conform and use the same layout as well as the same exact typeface, Calibri, if I'm not mistaken.

"Is there anything I might have seen I might recognize?" my new friend might inquire. 

Yeah, no. 

For a few reasons. About 20 years ago I became a lot less focused on making stuff, anything that could possibly get produced. And started focusing on making my nut. That included stashing away small bundles of cash for any rainy days that may lie ahead. I type that while staring out the window at the microburst drifting over Culver City --wettest, in terms of water, I've ever seen.

As well as the imbecilic, political maelstrom that has swept over our once-great country

I made a lot of stuff in the 80's and 90's of the previous century. Anyone who might, on the off chance, remember that would have traveled around the sun as often as I have. I doubt you've seen I made back then in fact I'd bet you can't remember what you had for lunch yesterday. 

I know because I can't remember where I left my Prevagen™.

"Did you make funny commercials?"

I did make some funny commercials, some unintentionally funny. But none of the hundreds of commercials I wrote, helped develop, or had any part in, were never great. Not one. And most, in cringy hindsight, barely any good. Thankfully they committed to film in the pre-YouTube era.

That is my vocational regret. I have many other vocational regrets, but that's enough digital soul searching for one day.

"Excuse me, I'm going to the bar for another Evan Williams and soda."

Oh Canada

 I'd hate to accuse our stable genius President of not thinking things all the way through, but on the "Canadian Issue" it appears his actions are bordering (SWIDT?) on insanity.

In the past two months he has constantly demeaned outgoing Prime Minister Justin Trudeau by referring to him as governor. (more on that later)

Additionally, despite renegotiating and rewriting the NAFTA agreements (Google: USMCA) which served all North American nations well, just 5 years ago, he has launched an all out trade war against one of our largest trading partners, to the north.

"They're ripping us off, I tell you. They're treating us horribly." 

It should also be noted it's the nation on earth with the longest land mass border with our once-respectable country.

And, because cooler minds and friendship prevailed for so many years, it is a wide open border. There's no wall. There's very little in the way of guarded border locations. In fact, like the many bison, bears and honey badgers that cross over the imaginary line that separate our two nations, a wilderness-knowledgable man or woman could easily walk into the USA. Or out. And it would be made even easier, if they had a good pair of snowshoes.

But now these Canadians are our enemy. Or so says the crybaby president who whines as often as he breathes.

That's going to stop he adds. Threatening to tariff the fuck out of our neighbors and bleed them dry, until they beg for mercy. 

Here's where it really goes off the rails. As if it wasn't already off the rails and free falling down an inhospitable canyon of cragged rocks, pointy trees and the aforementioned bear, bison and badgers.

He also wants to draw Canada into this new circle of hell and make Canada the 51st state. Clearly he has eyes on their vast natural resources. And since America was built on the foundation of global resource extraction, he can't wait to get his tiny vulgarian hands on their oil, lumber and first world manufacturing facilities.

It's also clear that he believes he can bully them into submission.

Given Canadian's exceeding politeness, I don't believe these hearty people are going to tap out so easily. They eat wolverines for breakfast. Some do, I'm told.

But even if the 41 million Maple Heads (I don't have a good pejorative term for them, but I'm sure Captain Ouchie Foot and his toadie Elon are workshopping them right now) do take the plunge, there's the stone that has not been turned over yet by the crack, strategic Trump Team.

41 million people would make Canada, our newest state, the largest in the Union. In land mass as well as in electoral delegates. Moreover, since these folks, who have a much more liberal bent than even the crunchiest Vermonter, it's safe to assume Canada would lean BLUE. 

That would not just be fatal for GOP presidential aspirations, but congressional as well as judicial. That's two new senators and a boatload of House Representatives that would be coming our way.

And there's nothing our closeted Speaker of the House or his close personal friend Jesus, could do about it. 

The only way around would be to pay each of the former Canadians a huge sum of money, like $130,000 in return for doing something completely disgusting and repulsive. 

I guess that could work. 

SchAnora

At this point in my life, I do not give a tinker's tater tot over the many Belding bowls, One Show pencils, ANDY heads, and Certificates of Thank You for Donating a Submission Fee, that now occupy dusty space in my incredibly disheveled garage. 

In the same way,  I have no mental rental space in my brain for the players in the theatrical world and their Golden Globe awards, Emmy's, Tonys and Oscars. The yearly nominee lists merely serve as a cheat sheet for movies or shows I should probably know about or at least have seen.

With that in mind, I was naturally curious about Anora. 

It had won Best Picture of the Year. And the lead actress won Best Actress, though I was pulling for Demi Moore, whose children attended the same inordinately-expensive grammar school as mine.

Moreover, I had discovered that the movie was produced independently and for a ridiculously low price of $7 million. There are blockbuster Super Bowl commercials that cost as much to make -- I think. I swore I'd stay in my lane and never discuss the costs associated with production. Or post production. Or even post-post-production.

Given all that, and because I could rent the movie for 6 bucks, Ms. Muse and I got cozy, as cozy as one gets while still nursing an ornery surgical incision that measures 14 inches in length, and committed our eyeballs to this piece of bleeech. Netflix and De-Ill, if you will.

Spoiler Alert: I'm going to be revealing plot points, such as they are, in order to flesh out my review. If you haven't seen Anora and still plan to, you might want to stop here. Or you might want to take dictation at this point and thank me later for sparing you an insufferable 2 & 1/2 hours of cinemasturbation.

It begins with two materialistic, amoral young people in their early twenties who seem to have discovered sex for the very first time. She's a dancer, euphemism for "nimble prostitute" and he is ruble-encrusted spoon baby from the Motherland, a little boy so spoiled he makes DJTJ look like the paragon of good upbringing.

They fuck, they do drugs, they fuck, they do drugs, until it all spirals out of control and they find themselves getting married in Las Vegas.

I care so little about these two, that I wished they had crossed paths with some underworld ne'erdowells in Vegas who had some unfinished business with the buy's Hebraic oligarch parents who are pillars of the Russian mafioso. That could have been a movie.

Sadly that doesn't happen. But we do finally get to meet his obscenely wealthy parents who have built their many dachas on the pimping of drugs, the running of guns and the extortion of other Russian lowlifes, but cannot possibly fathom the shame this marrying hussy has brought upon their fine family.

Like all the characters, this movie is trash. Or in the tired tropey vernacular of the day, "Tell me you hate this movie without telling me you hate this movie."

God, I hate that popular play on words. But I hated this movie even more.

I give it two bloody thumbs down.

Cane and Label

Last week, POTUS 47 held his 5th State of the Union Address before Congress, or at least the body pretending to be Congress. It's more like a cartwheel of revolving tongues and rubber stamps ready to service Trump at his beck and call.

Like all his previous State of the Reich addresses. This was, from what I hear,  two hours of non-stop classic (meaning false) Trump chestbeating.

"America is back baby. We're hot again. Everybody wants to be here. But we got here first and the rest of you losers can kick rocks. USA, USA, USA!!!!" 

This despite the chaos caused by Elon Empty Husk, picking a fight with Canada, our most faithful ally that shares a gazillion mile wide open border with us, and the ping ponging tarriff/no tarriff policy that continues to whipsaw the investment community. And has me questioning the wisdom of purchasing an expensive comforter for my airbnb.

One Congressman from Texas, the honorable Al Green, could stand no more and made his sentiments known. Unlike his GOP brethren, Marjorie Taylor Greene and Joe Wilson who rudely interrupted addresses given by Biden, he was unceremoniously escorted from the room. And unable to participate in the Dem's big flag planting challenge: holding up little plastic placards. Damn.

This morning, I happened to catch Congresswoman Lauren Boebert's remarks regarding her colleague Al Green and his "Pimp Cane." 

Oh yeah that's how she referred to it, hence the bolded type for enhanced protestation. If I had a meaningless little placard, I'd be holding it up.

Perhaps I'm being overly sensitive to this because as of this moment I have weaned myself off the walker and now depend on the cane I found in my closet when my Uncle Ronnie was recuperating from his double knee replacement. 

I wonder if Bobbin' Boebert would refer to mine as a Pimp Cane?

I suspect not. 

Because to this cretinous piece of White Trash (who has no business being anywhere near the levers of power, as perfunctory as they currently are) I suspect it has far less to do with the shape, material or craftsmanship of the cane itself, and more (obviously) with the melanin content of the man or woman in need of the walking stick.

You would think that a rookie Congresswoman who got caught pink-handed, churning for manbutter with her boyfriend at a fully packed theater and then forced to switch Colorado districts to eek out a reelection victory, would have the good sense to sink into the shrubbery (a la Sean Spicer) and maintain a low profile for the rest of her worthless days. 

You know, to remain in the good graces of her Pimp.

"Not good Lauren. Elon and I do the highly offensive racial remarks. You're job is to stay out of the headlines and make me and President Musk look good. Understood? Now gimme my money bitch."

 

Plan B. B for Bonnie.

I don't have many of the father/son memories like the ones I've heard from my contemporaries. There was never a time that my dad woke up on a Sunday morning and said, "Hey let's go out in the yard and play some catch." Or, "Want to grab our tackle boxes and head down to the fishing hole?" 

We didn't have poles. Or tackle boxes. Or even a fishing hole.

Whatever time we did spend together was often contentious.

"I'm not spending $3000 to waterproof the bottom half of our modest Split Level, when I have two strong -- soon to be stronger- boys who can do the work with (for) me." 

As if that pleasantry weren't enough, we'd dug, and dug and continue to dig a four foot deep trench around the perimeter, all the while listening to him drone on about Nazis. And how what happened in Germany, could easily happen here. That would have been an improvement.

I believe if I were to ever go into deep psycho-analysis, I would start with that little anecdote.

While I learned a little (reluctantly) about waterproofing and the water draining properties of medium sized gravel rocks, I learned (also reluctantly) about the fragile nature of American democracy and the dangers of xenophobia.

Fast forward to today and a discussion with Ms. Muse about escape hatches. We often josh around about how despite my Hebraic Seasonings, I am more Celtic than she. Our 23andme maps detailing our ancestors in Ireland are mirror images. Folks from Scotland and Northern Ireland are surprisingly similar. And because of the constant nomadic struggle to find work, highly interchangeable.

The difference here is that my mother was an immigrant. She came to the states when she was 17. The bravery demonstrated by she and her sister Mary (RIP) is astounding. Given all that, I had a chat with Counselor Google. And the good news is that my brother and sister as well as my cousins, Jackie and Alan, are all eligible for Scottish Citizenship. 

Automatic citizenship, has such a definitive and declarative sound to it. Of course I know there will be obstacles and road blocks ahead of me so I'm not going to go and buy a fancy schmancy kilt right now. But I can see it in my future.

Or as Ms. Muse so eloquently put it, "I'd have my own Dougle." If you watch Outlander on Netflix, you know.

The point is, fortune favors the well-prepared. And so I'm putting my convalescence to good use and beginning my quest to obtain me Scottish papers.

To be continued...

The Silver Lining Effect

Let's be frank and personal, this year has not brought a lot of good news. At least for me.

It started with what I thought was a case of food poisoning. But since Ms. Muse suffered no ill effects from the previous night's dinner, I had ruled out that diagnosis. And came to believe it was the dreaded Norovirus.

No sooner had I emerged from what seemed like weeks on the ceramic throne, and shed at least 10 lbs. from a misplaced appetite, I was struck with the Flu. Not just any flu, but the one that was engineered by crafty Chinese scientists to make me pray for my maker to call me home. 

Of course being militantly agnostic/atheist, that would have been some trick.

Suffice it to say that Flu was a mofo. Between the chills, the spiking fever and the inability to climb out of bed, it was sufficient to make me think resting in peace for all of eternity was not such a bad game plan after all.

Enough, right? Well a week or so after my Flu recovery, I had slipped on my sometimes slippery Trek (manufactured woodlike product) deck that supports the hot tub in back yard. I fell so hard on my ass that I couldn't move for 15 minutes. Plus I was naked as a jaybird and could not really summon for any help.

"I've fallen and I can't put my clothes on." 

That tumble left me with me with a knot in my back that could hold its own with Gordian's.

More recently, and perhaps you're tired of hearing about it, I had a THR, that's medical jargon for Total Hip Replacement and the installation of the Cobalt/Chromium/Titanium new joint. I was unable to locate the actual name of the unit but let's just call it the CCT 9000. In accordance with my belief that any product name followed by a number connotes higher quality.

Upon discharge and my ongoing convalescence there have been chills, night sweats, low grade fever and a bout of opioid-related constipation that need not be discussed at any further length. Thankfully, no pipes from my house to the main sewer line on Le Bourget Ave were damaged.

So, you're thinking where is the Silver Lining in all this?

I'm happy to say that all this kvetching has been delightfully counterbalanced with some kvelling.

As some of you may or may not know, I operate a small airbnb in Palm Springs. Because I entered the hospitality business later, I was only able to secure a Junior Certificate, meaning I am limited to renting the place out only 6 times a year. As such, it is in my best interest to get longer stays for maximum revenue. And last night, from out of the blue, I got an email from a woman who wants to rent the joint for 9 nights for her mother and her mother's friend.

Having two older ladies as guests is the equivalent of hitting the airbnb jackpot. There'll be no wild parties. No destruction of furniture. No excessive noise which could upset the neighbors. I just have to make sure there's plenty of Talcum Powder in the bathrooms.

The Silver Lining gets even better, because it's only March 6th and I've already secured 5 of my possible 6 rental bookings for the year. 

Maybe that 6th booking will go to you. Or, even better to your mother or grandmother.

Here's some photos to make you think about it....

See more here: https://www.airbnb.com/rooms/1024804526943007430?adults=2&check_in=2025-04-25&check_out=2025-04-29&search_mode=regular_search&children=0&infants=0&pets=0&source_impression_id=p3_1741222566_P308IYA8Jc9aytD1&previous_page_section_name=1000&federated_search_id=f6fbfc02-e5b2-425c-8521-cf6f3c4cfa07

"I don't wear a suit, but yours is ugly."

Like many of you I watched the proceedings of the "diplomatic" beatdown that took place last Friday. Unlike most of you, I was watching while attired in a surgical gown and awaiting the time they would roll me out of pre-op stall #19 into the large operating room down the hall.

I was told to arrive at the surgical "factory" (where all outpatient procedures are conducted at 8 AM. From the comfort of my gurney I was able to follow the story and all its FUBAR glory.

And because my procedure kept getting delayed and delayed and delayed, like his mortal demise, I caught most of the childish antics before the scalpel was removed from its sanitary wrapping.

I had never seen anything like it. And perhaps because I was already apprehensive about having a bone cut out of my body and replaced with a Cobalt Chrome Titanium device that would follow me to my end, I shouldn't have watched any of it.

To the list of many things Trump has upended in our modern world, we can now add the proper way heads of sovereign states conduct talks with each other. With respect, dignity and a certain calmness that goes a long way to making diplomacy different than street brawling.

It's difficult for me to picture the famed Yalta Conference or even the Cuban Missile Crisis talks between Kennedy and Krushkev, being conducted in the same schoolyard bully fashion. Should we ever face a global face off, we can expect more of the same from the clown who is so unfamiliar with history, he now believes the former head of the KGB can be his best buddy. 

In the same way that the dictator of North Korea can be his bro. Or even his Lovaaaahh. See Sex In the City Season One, episode 6.

Even more disturbing is the rewriting of history, documented history, to make it appear Ukraine started this entire conflagration. 

They did not!

Think about it. Why would a non-nuclear nation, like Urkraine  (Only 604,000 square miles) start picking a fight with a nuclear behemoth, Russia that measures 6, 600,000 square miles, the largest country on the planet.

Nothing, nothing at all makes sense anymore. Thank god I have a myriad of post surgical drugs that can at least put me out of my cerebral misery.

Must. Ration. Pills.

Withering away

Prior to my surgery last Friday, I had to get cleared with a standard Pre-Op. There, I was coaxed into getting on the scale. It should be noted that the scale and I have not been friends. Not since day one when I entered this world at a whopping 10.1 lbs.

My mother, and my father, never let me forget this.  Later on my family life, he would refer to me as The Big One.

"Tell the Big One to take out the trash."

"I need the Big One to mow the yard."

"No more chocolate cake for the Big One."

He would usually say this in a jocular manner, but it did leave its mark. I suspect my extra poundage was an affront to his Post-Depression sensibilities, where he had to fight off his two brothers for a pat of butter for his bread. If they had bread. It also clashed with his self image as a young boy growing up on the tough streets of the Bronx.

He religiously lifted weights so he'd be prepared for any scuffles that could happen off the Grand Concourse.

Last week, for the first time in a long time, the scale was incredibly forgiving. I tipped in at 173 lbs. If I leaned to my left a bit, it actually dipped to 172.6. 

The last time I weighed that much...er, that little, was before I entered high school. This may not seem like blog worthy material, but then we crossed that threshold a long time ago.

At one point, in the not so distant past, I had ballooned up to 235 lbs. I was packing enough flesh for 2 Dad Bods. It was not pretty (not that I've ever been accused of that) but to this day I can't look at any of those photos. I couldn't even look at my old fat guy clothes, which have been dutifully donated to the Jewish Women's Council Thrift Shop.

It's quite surreal to go from a lifelong mindset to a completely new one. And as you might imagine I'm quite proud of the achievement. Mostly because I did it on my own. No Ozempic. No gastric sleeves. Just cut out red meats and processed foods and started eating more from the produce section. And a ton of salmon.

Over the past four years, close to a literal ton of salmon.

When my new hip is up to the task, I will resume my swimming, biking, walking and weightlifting with a vengeance. Because according to my smart digital scale which can calculate all kinds of data and even tells me my bank account balance, I should weigh 165 lbs.

Which means there's still some work to do. Also, you can never tell a former fat guy that he's too thin. It doesn't work that way. Ever.

Our 17th year

It's Monday (March 3rd) where you are, but it's Wednesday (February 26th) where I am right now, suffering unbearable pain in my right hip. 

Just to get graphic, it's as if I had stepped on rusted piece of rebar and the pointy end is scraping the inside of the ball and socket joint, the largest weight bearing joint in the entire human body. 

With any luck and with the skillful gifted hands of Dr. Sassoon, the rebar will replaced with a shiny new and well lubricated titanium femur ball that will breathe new life into my walk. Who knows it might even resurrect my one time dream of becoming an NFL kicker. 

I'm coming after you Harrison Butker, with your stupid SteamPunk attire and even stupider visions of living in a Handmaid's Tale world.

With any more luck I will leave the outpatient surgical center on Friday -- which is/was -- my birthday and wake up to a full jar of Oxycodone or Percoset, to ease my way back into the world of the walking. 

And maybe writing.

Ms. Muse had asked what I planned to do RoundSeventeen-wise when I come out of the Propofol-induced dreamworld. She half-heartedly suggested I get some crazy blogging done before the serious business of convalescence begins.

Lost in all this bionic rebuilding of Rich, is the fact that this blog is celebrating an important anniversary. I've told this story before and with any luck and the proper recovery, I'll tell it again. Besides, there are close to 4000 posts here, if you don't like this one, spin the wheel of torture and find another.

It was 16 years ago that my friend and former boss Mark Monteiro (one of the best people from the ad industry) sent me a text suggesting I follow him into this new thing called blogging. 

"You seem to have a lot on your mind Rich, why not give voice to it? You know, other than meaningless commercials and ads no one will ever see or remember?"

Not sure anything written here has risen beyond any of my ad work, but it has served the purpose of making people laugh (OK, some people). And more importantly, given me a platform which may or may not have improved my writing but has certainly saved me thousands of dollars in therapy sessions.

With that, and because I have to get another ice pack to wedge between my torso and this flaming rebar jabbing me in my hip, I just want to thank the 8 loyal readers who have been here through the ups and downs. As well as the newcomers who might have stumbled onto these digital pages and thought, "He's no George Tannenbaum."

Now if you'll excuse me, Dr. Sassoon (related to the hair styling empire, BTW) says I need to get one of those reachy/grabby things...

God, I'm old.

 

Count backwards from 100...

Tomorrow is my birthday. And I'll be spending the majority of it under the influence of propofol and some industrial-strength pain killers. 

Hardly the ideal way to celebrate another trip around the sun. But this truth is, I wouldn't have it any other way. I'm happy to tell you why.

As anyone who has been reading these pages or has been within old man earshot of me for the past several months, I have been in excruciating pain. I've had to curtail my late afternoon walks -- my dog Lucy is not happy with that development. There were a few rounds with physical therapy and the bending of my torso in ways it was never meant to be bended. 

And last month, I had a cortisone injection, all to stem the Marathon Man-like torture of my right hip joint.

On one recent walk, I almost keeled over and considered calling for an Uber to drive me the remaining 7 tenths of a mile back to my house. 

I could take no more and scheduled an appointment with Dr. Sassoon, who had replaced my left hip three years ago. He took one look at my x-ray and said, "you sprung a leak right here, so whatever fluid was protecting the joint is seeping away. That can be really painful." 

"Doc," I said "you don't have to tell me, now let's make with the morphine."

"We don't do that anymore, but with a little luck I can get you penciled for surgery in July."

There goes my ballroom dancing career. 

You can imagine my surprise and delight when I got a call from the surgical scheduler the very next day, telling me there had been a cancelation and an opening for next Friday, February 28th. 

My special day!

I snapped it up in a second. You might be thinking, "awww, Rich has to spend his birthday in a hospital." But the sad truth is this isn't my first Crappy Birthday while under the watchful eye of skilled medical professionals. 

On my 61st birthday, I was attempting to burn off some morning calories in preparation for that evening's predictable overconsumption. While lifting weights I accidentally dropped a 25 lbs. dumbbell on my hand, splitting my ring finger open and blurting out blood with more force than Yellowstone's Old Faithful geyser.

I'm laughing at the whole thing and see this cancellation as a great birthday gift. Besides, if therer's one thing life has taught me it's that it helps to deal with the ups and downs of Life with a good sense of humor. 

And a well-lubricated femur.

On Dictators

President Trump said something very funny the other day. 

This is noteworthy because by and large he never says anything funny. He is genuinely without any sense of humor. Which goes along with his lack of curiosity, literary knowledge, taste in music and generally any attribute one might expect to find in a human being.

What was this funny quip? He called President Zelenskyy of Ukraine, a Dictator.

This is funny on its face value because in 2019 Zelenskyy beat Petro Poroshenko in a landslide victory 73% to 24%. In a free and fair election recognized by countries who hold free and fair elections (which previously included the US.)

It's also funny because he used the word as a pejorative. As if to say that anyone who is a recognizable dictator should be shunned. And cut off from any US support. And this came after he successfully (?) campaigned on the notion that he himself would BE A DICTATOR on Day One of his presidency.

Of course he's not our Dictator. That would be Elon Musk.

It's all so performative. 

We know, by everything he has said and everything he's done, that he has no concept of what constitutes a Constitutional Republic. Nor any respect for the notion of democracy. The besmirching of Zelenskyy is simply a prelude to tossing the whole Ukrainian kitski and kaboodleski back to his patron, Putin.

Fact is, Trump loves dictators. 

He speaks glowingly of their strong man techniques. Whines about how "his generals" don't hang on his every word like the Chinese and the Russians. And would love nothing more than to rule with an iron fist, albeit, given his physical shortcomings, a very tiny iron fist.

You kids might be too young, or forgetful, to remember this, but Trump's love of dictators manifested itself in a very embarrassing and somewhat gay way -- not that there's anything wrong with that -- years ago when he started receiving Love Letters from Kim Jong Un.

Who could forget when he stood next to a representative of the DPRK and clownishly displayed the oversized card purchased at the Pyongyang Hallmark Store...

"We fell in love"

Crowd at the Nazi rally groans.

"No (he chuckles), we really fell in love," he tells the fevered masses earnestly. They demure and give him the validation he so desperately demands.

And this man has the nuclear codes to destroy all of humanity. 

WTF?

Deli Daze

Los Angeles, despite a Jewish population that exceeds Tunisia, Morocco, Algeria, Libya, Egypt, Jordan, Syria, Lebanon, Iraq, Iran, combined (oh wait those countries kicked all their Jews out in 1948), suffers from a surprising dearth of Deli's. 

It could very well be a form of gastric cleansing.

And so Ms. Muse I decided to try a deli in San Gabriel. For brisket of all things. 

Thankfully the brisket at Golden deli is not prepared the way my grandmother used to. With canned carrots. Canned peas. Canned gravy. And a smattering of cigarette ashes from the Pall Mall dangling between her wrinkly lips.

This was something different. 

In fact, it was the first time Ms. Muse and I had ever stepped foot in a Pho place. Suggested by the trusty food critics at the LA times, we decided to venture out of our comfort zones, and the self imposed 8.3 mile radius that encircles her house in bucolic Sierra Madre.

And boy were we glad we did. We arrived early on a sunny Sunday late afternoon and found the parking lot teeming with hungry "deli-goers." Always a good sign when people are lined up outside eager to escape the 71 degree early evening chill. 

We were seated in about 15 minutes, which comes close to the end of my restaurant-waiting patience. My daughters, committed foodies since the dawn of Top Chef and other assorted food-adjacent TV shows, will wait up to 3 hours for what they deem a "special meal." I'm looking at you Tartine in San Francisco.

In between awkwardly stuffing our faces with exceedingly long white noodles and delicious, paper thin strips of brisket, Ms. Muse had an idea. As well, she should. It is, after all, her self-appointed job.

"You know how you do the Thursday Photo Funnies? You should also do a series like Monday Restaurant Reviews," she mused.

I told her, that was an interesting idea. Particularly if I can make it interesting enough that fancy-schmancy restaurateurs would want me to come their places. Sample the fare. And comp the whole meal.

"That's genius," I wanted to say but not let her ego run wild, I thought silently.

"And I could go with you on all these comestible journeys," she added, "You know, to help. Maybe take notes."

Mmmm...I see how it is. 

A Day at CostCo

When the media released a list of companies that had caved to the Musk/Trump Reich and pulled back on DEI, I made a mental note of where I should no longer spend my stay-of-a-dirty-home dollars.  

Of course it would be impossible to boycott them all. It's not like a commodotized shitty beer like Bud Light. Truth is I depend on huge airlines, Amazon and the Toilet Paper cartel for my daily living. But I had also read that there were a handful of companies that still valued humanity, and all the various historically marginalized people who make up that humanity. One of them was Costco.

So I decided to reward their bravery and I re-enlisted.

My late wife and I used to shop there until about 2005, when gaining entry into the Marina Del ray Costco parking lot was like a trip into the 9 Rings of Hell at LAX. 

But a liberal, commie Patriot has to do what a liberal, commie Patriot has to do. So I shelled out the $65 membership fee and have already begun recouping my investment with bulk savings on bulk items. Hello, 68 roll package of 2 ply TP.

As detailed on these very pages, I have been spending a lot of time in the Foothills. Following a first hand tour of the devastation in Altadena, where block after block was ravaged by the fires leaving a Dresden-like landscape, Ms. Muse suggested a little retail therapy at the not so nearby Costco in San Gabriel.

Sure why not, I can always stock up supplies for my Airbnb in Palm Springs, which none of you have inquired about. Despite the promise of ample sunshine, warmth and the very accommodating friends and family rate. By the way, I was just given another 5 star hosting review on airbnb.

Walking in to Costco was like walking into a different world. I don't mean that because we were the only caucasians speaking the Queen's tongue. I had forgotten the shopping carts were the size of Flatbed trucks. You could fit three Safeway shopping carts into one Costco, The Bulkinator 9000. Strap a 75 HP Briggs and Stratton engine onto one of these puppies and you can leave a VW Vanagon in the dust. Sorry Paul.

Not only will Costco sell you stuff at ridiculously affordable prices, they'll also feed you. Here, we stopped for some Burnt Brisket Ends. I could do an off-color ethnic joke about the meat, but since this post started as a celebration of DEI, I will refrain. 

In Aisle #5 we came across pallets and pallets of towels: Beach Towels, Bath Towels, Bath Sheets, Hand Towels, Face Towels, even Towel Towels (for drying off your wet towels.) 

"I should beef up my supply at towels at the airbnb," I said to Ms. Muse.

"Maybe replace some of the ones at your house too? They have a certain sandpapaer quality to them, " she hinted.

A jocular moment at the Costco.

Topped, moments later, as we were using our phone's GPS system to locate the cashier stands. On the way out, we passed by the Costco Pharmacy. You can get anything at Costco, well almost.

A young man in his late teens or early twenties ran up to the pharmacist. I didn't hear what he said. But I did hear what the man in the white lab coat replied...

"I'm sorry son, we don't sell Morning After Pills at CostCo."

The lanky young man left the counter and sprinted towards the exit. 

Perhaps even faster than when he ran in.